Page 50 of The Garnet Daughter
“I am not in his fleet, but he is a decorated pilot.” His words slow at the end as he realizes my question is odd.
“That’s good.”
“Something I need to know?” he prods like a true bodyguard, just as Ferren described him.
“No, I think maybe I am not used to being around commanders.”
“Depending on where we are assigned, it is not uncommon to rarely interact with people outside the fleet. Makes for bad manners.” He stands, grabbing his tea. “But if you are uncomfortable with . . . anything, tell me.”
“I’m fine; that information is actually a relief even if it is a tad bleak.” I smile at him as a thank you and scoop up another bark-dry spoonful.
Commander Wesley leaves me alone in the mess hall, taking his tea to drink in private. I manage a few more bites of the Viathan food and listen to the wind whipping across the side of the ship.
Then, I decide I would like to see exactly what a sandstorm resembles out the cockpit windows and not just shapes moving on Commander Wesley’s data pad.
Unfortunately, when I arrive, Commander Vermeil is at his command station, hovering over it with his palms flat on the surface, and as he hears me reluctantly approach, he looks over his shoulder like he is expecting me to announce why I am interrupting him.
“I wanted to see the sandstorm,” I state, not willing to let him make me uncomfortable again.
The cockpit is dark, but the buttons at the front flicker like stars and the strips of light lining the floor and ceiling edge do most of the illuminating. The windows are closed, the front completely walled off, as if there are no eyes on this ship at all.
He watches, considering me in a way that feels less unsettling now that I know he is seriously lacking in socialization skills. I wonder if Viathan begins training the commanders as children like the priestess order does. The thought makes me sad for comparing the two, but more so because it seems plausible.
He turns back and presses a button at his side, commanding the panel closest to me to open and reveal the front window. It’s odd, yes, but the small kindness is enough to make me feel guilty for thinking him strange.
Darkness blots out the glass, but when I move closer, the presence of tiny, dancing particles move across the surface in a chaotic pattern. They catch on the metal edges and fly upward into the window like a constant explosion of sand. I watch for a long time, hoping to see any break or direction change, but it continues relentlessly.
“Thank you, Commander Vermeil.” I pass by him, where he now works on an open panel in the wall.
“You’re welcome, Callia,” he says without pausing his task, voice muffled stiffly by his helmet.
I adjust my bookmark from sticking out too much to prevent any creasing and decide to wait out the rest of the storm in my room. I can lie down and read through the spell book in peace.
But then I pause, not knowing exactly why until my mind catches up with the deep knowing within my body.
Wait . . . Callia? He called me Callia.
Which is strange because only one person has ever called me that.
Chapter
Seventeen
Istand frozen, trying to silence the warning bells that have sounded ever since our meeting in the cargo hull. But something is quite . . . off. I observe him working, the shape of his shoulders, his posture. No, it’s not off. It’s familiar.
I might be paranoid, or it could be that I miss August and am imagining his presence where he’s absent.
“August?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, but he does pause, enough for me to notice a mood shift.
“August!” I test again.
He straightens, turning to face me. I stand my ground, inspecting his movements, the way the armor fits his form, and gather more evidence in my mind to prove it is him.
He steps toward me, closer than I would let him if he were a Viathan commander. His helmet tilts down, matching the line of my scrutiny. If this is not August, then this is truly alarming.
“August,” I whisper, letting the possibility of being mistaken take root.
